


Turned

by yeaka



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Slavery, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-26 20:47:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2665805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the seal camp, Esca demonstrates that Marcus is his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ficlet

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn't historically accurate. Thanks to abbeyjewel for betaing. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Eagle or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His shoulders are starting to ache, almost as much as his leg. More than that, he’s just uncomfortable, both with being bound like this and emotionally drained, made slave to a slave and forced to kneel before a tribe that helped slaughter his father’s men. Marcus tries not to be sullen, because that gets him nowhere, but when he’s been tied to a pole in the center of the dark tent for hours on end, there’s little else to do. A few other slaves mill about around him, and a kind woman brings him food and water while the others eat. But no one unties him, and Marcus doesn’t even bother to struggle; he’d never make it out alive.

The part that hurts the most is _Esca_ , whom Marcus put every last bit of his trust in, whom Marcus grew far too close to and learned to care for, and now that man dines with a prince and Marcus is... here. The betrayal hurts worse than the distance.

When the sealskin flap is pushed out of the doorway, Marcus doesn’t look over. But when he hears the footsteps, something in them registers; Marcus recognizes those footfalls, and the flickering oil lamps cast the newcomer’s long shadow over him.

He looks up at Esca with what he wants to be a burning glare. But he can’t seem to muster the anger he needs. He should be furious. But instead he’s strangely empty with sorrow creeping in around all the edges. He knows, deep down, that Esca’s done nothing Marcus hasn’t done to him. Marcus knows that this very quest asked Esca to work against his own people in service to those that killed his family. And still, Marcus longs for the days when he could pretend they were on the same side.

Esca takes another two steps towards him. There are other slaves in the tent that neither of them look at, and the others don’t pay them much attention anymore. It’s dangerous for a slave to watch a foreign master, and only Marcus stares him right in his blue eyes, made black in the low firelight.

Right at Marcus’ side, Esca reaches down, and one hand slips beneath Marcus’ chin. He cups Marcus’ jaw, thumb grazing through the growing stubble and reaching to pet Marcus’ cheek. Esca’s long fingertips stroke his skin. His breath fails him. Esca tilts Marcus’ face up, forcing him to look up into Esca’s eyes. For a moment, he thinks they’ve softened. They were so hard, closed off, when he and Esca were first caught, but now watch Marcus with an undeniable warmth. He knows they’re being watched—they always are now—but he can’t help but wonder, as foolish as it seems, if he’s really lost Esca after all.

He wants to ask forgiveness for even doubting, for dragging Esca into all this danger and for everything Rome’s done to him. But Marcus has no right to ask that, and he stays quiet, while Esca’s eyes slowly descend down his battered body, back to heaving in the stifled air. When Esca’s gaze reaches the ground, right between Marcus’ spread legs, Esca kicks out at his good one, nudging it aside. Marcus spreads his legs wider, not understanding.

Then Esca steps between them. His fingers fall away, and Marcus tries to follow them, but the rope binding his arms to the pole from wrist to bicep stop him. Esca kneels down before him, still poised on nimble feet, towering over Marcus, because even though Marcus is bigger, he can’t kneel like he used to. He sits on his ass and stares up at Esca, who reaches for the back of Marcus’ head. His fingers dig in, fisting, brushing the back of his skull, and memories fill him: kneeling in the field for his Esca, for the Seal Prince, Esca’s hand tight in his hair and holding back his head, exposing his throat. Esca makes him vulnerable, but he knew that from the first time he saw Esca’s gleaming body in the pit, covered in mud and thrumming with life.

Now Esca uses his grip to tug Marcus forward, and Marcus goes where he’s told. He’s shocked when Esca leans in too. His head tilts, and Marcus barely has time to react; Esca’s lips cover his. It’s a brutal, harsh kiss, their first one, something that Marcus tried never even to dream. Esca pushes into him so hard that Marcus’ head hits the pole behind him. Esca’s teeth dig into his bottom lip and tug on the way out; Marcus grunts in a mess of pleasure-pain. As soon as Esca’s mouth is gone from him, he misses it, and he strains forward, but Esca’s grip holds him back. Esca jerks Marcus’ head aside and mouths at his jaw, hissing too quietly to carry, “The slaves won’t speak much latin, but it isn’t safe to assume no one in the camp can.” Marcus knew that, of course. Should’ve known that, should’ve thought of it, when this first started and he blamed Esca for his slavery. Esca bites into the corner of his mouth, then lifts a centimeter away. Marcus’ eyes have been fluttering open and closed, but he stares up when Esca asks, “Do you understand?”

Marcus gulps purely because his mouth is dry and this is hard on his lungs. He can see Esca watching his adam’s apple bob. He runs his tongue along his lips and says a simple, “Yes.” Esca looks at him a moment more, maybe determining _just how much_ Marcus understands. Maybe this is all necessary, and Esca never betrayed Marcus at all, simply adapted, boldly and brilliantly, like any good soldier. Marcus can’t tell if he believes it because of Esca’s eyes or because he so desperately _wants_ to believe it.

Esca kisses him again. Hard, fast, tongue all over his mouth while hands twist in his hair. His jaw’s held open, mouth stretched wider, giving more room for Esca’s to explore, and Marcus tries to do the same. He doesn’t think to bite Esca’s lips like Esca keeps biting his, but he does try to suck on Esca’s tongue even though Esca can’t seem to keep it still. Esca gives him kiss after kiss, a steady river of them, before pulling back again to hiss, “You’re my slave. I have to use and punish you.” There’s a ferocity in his tone, but Marcus can hear the hesitation too, sentiment held back. “If I’m not using you fully, the prince will.” Marcus doesn’t have to ask what ‘fully’ means.

He doesn’t know how slaves north of the wall are kept. He only knows how Romans treat their slaves and how unfair that life seemed on Esca, however kind Marcus tried to be and no matter how he held back. The thought of having the same fate, being _owned_ , terrifies Marcus. He’s lived through it so far, but it’s humiliating, and then the thought of being _used fully_ comes in to crush him; how much more shame can his family bear? He searches Esca’s face to be sure, but he can tell from the guarded look he receives that he’s right. He opens his mouth to say no.

But Esca gives him another kiss. A quick one, a chaste one. And Marcus’ entire body arches forward, because he’s _wanted_ Esca for as long as he can remember. If he has to have his honour ripped away, he’d rather it be at Esca’s hands than the Seal Prince. Esca breaks apart to hold their foreheads together, and Marcus breathes, “ _Use me._ ” It’s easier to say than he thought it would be.

He doesn’t regret it either, and he’s excited through his shame. He doesn’t understand why and doesn’t think about it. Esca reaches down for his belt where his dagger’s tucked snugly into place; the one from his father that the Seal People confiscated from Marcus under the assumption he’d stolen it. A part of him yearns to get it back, even knowing what it means to Esca’s freedom. Esca reaches over Marcus’ shoulder, and for one horrible second, Marcus fears he’ll be marked as the slave he’s become.

Esca only slices the rope away. It snaps from between Marcus’ biceps, and that gives him the power to tear the rest off. Esca replaces his dagger at his waist while Marcus pulls his arms free and stretches them, stiff and sore. It feels good to no longer be bound, and he finds himself saying, “Thank you.”

“This will be easier on me.” Rubbing his wrists, Marcus looks up; he doesn’t know what that means. Having Marcus untied? Esca puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes him away from the pole; Marcus awkwardly shuffles aside. Then Esca is pushing him again, bending him down, and Esca orders, “Lie still.”

The tone of order makes Marcus acutely aware that they’re being watched. There are two other slaves in the tent, now, and even if they aren’t looking, they’ll report anything unusual. It was so easy, while they were touching, for Marcus to pretend it was just the two of them again. He lies back like he’s told, the rough ground below a poor substitute for Roman tiling. Esca places a hand on his thigh, and he shivers, wondering with a clenching stomach if he should roll over onto his front to make this easier.

Esca only murmurs, “You’re lucky the Britons have different ideas of shame and domination.” His hand moves, just gently stroking through Marcus’ braccae. “I don’t want to take a man that has no power to stop me.”

Marcus lifts up on his elbows. He _stares_ at Esca, utterly lost, while Esca sinks to the floor between Marcus’ legs, stretching out along it. If he wasn’t going to take Marcus, what did he mean? It’s the first time he’s heard Esca say that he no longer has any _power_ , and even though he’s known it all along, it’s still a punch to the gut. No Roman likes to be powerless. Hearing it aloud makes it real. Esca lowers his entire body to the ground, shoulders lifted between Marcus’ thighs, and starts to tug at Marcus’ braccae.

Marcus is too frozen in shock to help. Esca does all the work, pushing Marcus’ ragged tunic up and pulling down the rough fabric around his hips, all the way down his crotch, right past his cock and even then further still. When it’s released from its confines, his cock juts up, half-hard in the air, which should also surprise him but doesn’t. Being on his knees for Esca, having Esca kneel next to him, mostly being kissed by Esca and tasting the meat on Esca’s tongue and inhaling the stench of Esca’s being have left him aroused, yearning for more. Esca’s expression falters when he sees Marcus, probably because of the obvious interest. Or perhaps because he’s particularly long, particularly thick—something he discovered early on, compared to his fellow soldiers. He can’t help but wonder what Esca’s look like, or better yet, feels like, smells like, tastes like, and he’s starting to regret that Esca won’t be taking him.

Esca licks his lips. The firelight dances over them, over his creamy skin, over the arc of his shoulders and back. He leans forward over Marcus’ crotch, and Marcus’ dick twitches in excitement. The other slaves are now focused on them. Marcus doesn’t blame them, and though he can’t look away from Esca’s face, he can feel their gazes. He licks his lips and murmurs, “Esca, you don’t have to—”

Esca gives him a warning look, and he closes his mouth. Of course not. He’s the one that’s owned here, not the other way around. This is the best way it could’ve happened, when he thinks about it—he would never have forced Esca when he was in charge, though his traitorous thoughts often lead down that path, hoping for some possibility, some way that he could take the gravity of what they had that extra step forward, but now it’s going to happen, and it isn’t his fault; he can’t be blamed. Esca descends over him, mouth open wide, and laves a beautiful, soft, pink tongue over the head of his cock. Marcus groans deep in the back of his throat and has to struggle to keep his head up. He wants to watch Esca. Esca’s blue eyes stay on Marcus’ as he trails a wet a ring of licks all down Marcus’ shaft. At the base, his eyes slide half shut, focused forward on Marcus’ cock, and he presses a firm kiss in just above Marcus’ balls.

Marcus is in a sick sort of heaven. He can barely move as Esca makes his way back up, then opens even wider, and pushes down to engulf Marcus’ bulbous tip. The pleasure is instant, the view perfect. Esca’s mouth is impossibly warm, and there’s a ring of suction around his lips, just a tiny bit of pressure, like Esca’s jaw can’t unhinge anymore but there isn’t _quite_ enough room for Marcus’ girth. The sight of Esca’s pink lips smeared with spit and stretched around Marcus’ engorged dick is more than he can take. He moans loud enough to wake the dogs and drops off his elbows, hitting the floor. He clamps one hand over his mouth to stifle his noises, the other a tight fist at his side. It takes all of his control not to push Esca down and buck his hips up. He wants to hump Esca’s face. But he’s a good slave, and he lies still for his master.

Somehow, it gets better. Esca pushes down a little ways, then pulls back, then dives down just a little further. He bobs up and down on Marcus’ cock, getting farther and farther each time. Marcus is impossibly hard, pulsing along Esca’s tongue. Esca’s fingers spread over his thighs, maybe a reminder not to move. At first, he worries that Esca’s hands are trembling, but then he realizes it’s his own hips; the pleasures’ driven him mad.

Finally, Esca shoves forward and takes the entire thing. Marcus screams into his palm. There can’t be room in Esca’s mouth; he must be down Esca’s throat, and then Esca swallows around him and everything tightens, constricts, feels so wildly good. Esca seems to be adjusting, but a few seconds later he’s sliding up again, and this time he hollows out his cheeks and _sucks_ with a force that leaves Marcus reeling. Esca plummets down, sucks and swallows around him, twists and bobs off, suckles at his tip and pushes back down. Marcus tries to stare at Esca whenever he can, but it’s hard not to simply lose himself and melt into the ground. He desperately wants to thread his fingers through Esca’s light hair; he’s so sure it’s soft; he wants to hold Esca down, but he also wants to stroke Esca’s cheek, feel the bulge of his own cock, _touch_ Esca and know this is real...

Marcus would stay like this forever if he could, but it’s too delicious and he’s longed for it for too long. His balls tighten way too soon, his stomach clenching as he wills himself to hold back, but then Esca’s eyes flick open again, blaze right into Marcus’ soul, and his whole world explodes. He bites into his hand to muffle his roar, and he spends himself right in Esca’s mouth, while Esca keeps going, suckling every last string of seed right out of him. Marcus is a shuddering, heaving, wreck of a man, and Esca continues to taste him long after he’s spilled everything he has.

By the time Esca finally pulls off, Marcus is sore and raw. But he still doesn’t want Esca to stop. Esca’s face is slightly flushed from exertion. Feeling Esca swallow his seed was the best thing Marcus has ever experienced. He moves to sit up, to wrap himself around Esca and draw him in closer, whisper how badly Marcus wants to do this again, but Esca shoves him back down before he gets very far.

Esca wipes his mouth off with one hand, the other idly toying with Marcus’ crotch, tugging at his flagging cock and balls and smoothing over the hair below his stomach and his inner thighs. He stares at Marcus for a few moments, even though Marcus is sure he can’t be half as beautiful as Esca is, and then Esca looks back and begins to tuck Marcus’ cock away.

“Don’t let anyone touch you,” he says, too matter-of-factly after what they’ve just shared. “They might try, but as long as we’re here, you belong to _me._ ”

Marcus lifts a hand to Esca’s shoulder. Esca looks sharply down at it, and Marcus, glowing from the declaration—he _enjoys_ the sound of belong to Esca far too much—mumbles, “I should please you.”

Esca stares at him.

Esca pushes his hand away and answers, “You already have.” Then Esca’s getting to his feet, looking a small degree less sure, less determined, than how he came in. He looks away from Marcus, and he walks towards the exit.

It takes everything Marcus has to lie still and be a good slave, when all he really wants is to rush out and tackle Esca to the ground, roll him down the hill and shake with just how relieved Marcus is that he hasn’t lost his Esca after all.


	2. Bonus

The second time Esca comes to him with that burning look, they’re along the shore. At a single glance from Esca, Marcus places the bundle of logs in his arms down on the driest patch of ground he can find, away from the water lapping along the grey sand. It’s cold here, but Marcus is thick and growing used to it. Though he’s seen a few stray warriors eye his woolen boots, he’s grateful none of them have seen fit to hold him down and rip them away. He’d probably fight them, but he’d be dead before the end of it, and he has something new to live for.

Esca doesn’t stop walking until he’s so close that Marcus has to take a step back. Maybe it’s another show of power. He can feel the warriors’ eyes watching his hesitation, his body; they’re ever present. But there are no seal people on the beach right now, just back up along the rocky slope, and the same wind that tussles Esca’s hair should snatch away their words. Esca speaks low all the same.

“The others are growing suspicious. You don’t act like a slave.”

Marcus grunts blankly, “That’s because I’m not.” He wasn’t raised or trained to be one, and everything he is tells him he should be the master. Everything but his conscience. Esca hasn’t done anything to properly coach him, and sometimes he still isn’t sure if Esca’s even on his side. Esca shakes his head, looking out along the water and the mountainous hills all around them.

“We need to remain inconspicuous while we’re here if we expect to live long enough to see the Eagle.” To _see_ it, not to find it. Marcus’ chest constricts at the mere mention.

He asks, “Do they have it?” Though he doesn’t really expect an answer.

Esca doesn’t give him one. He tries to tell himself that’s because Esca’s still an outsider, and they wouldn’t show it to him, not because Esca is a traitor that’s known the location all along. It’s enough for Marcus to play the chance of staying here. When he looks directly up the slope, the first seal warrior he eyes looks away. But the message is there. He’s always being watched. A Roman will never be trusted. Esca says tightly, “You need to be a better slave.” When Marcus looks back, Esca is giving him that _look_ , like they should be _one_ person instead of two and communicating without words.

Marcus licks his dry, chapped lips and hopes, asks, “Are you going to do... _that_... again?”

“Do you want me to?”

Esca’s stare is carefully neutral, and Marcus wishes he had that luxury, but he nods before he can stop himself. Of course he does. He’s thought of little else since. Who wouldn’t want to be pleasured by a man like Esca? Esca looks at him a moment longer, then steps forward and shoves at Marcus’ chest.

Marcus, caught by surprised, topples down. He ignores his military training. He doesn’t help himself, doesn’t spring back up: he falls against the sand and only rises hesitantly, until Esca snarls, “Stay down.” The fierceness stills Marcus’ body as much as the words. He settles back on his ass and stays there, looking up at Esca with all the hunger of a wolf eyeing sheep.

Esca’s his own wolf. He puts his boot over Marcus’ good knee, and Marcus lowers both legs to the sand without being told. He can feel the slick ooze of the wet ground clinging to his clothes, seeping along the back of his neck and into his hair. His fingers are already coated. Esca steps over him, one leg on either side, and starts to lower down.

He sits on Marcus’ waist, straddling him, heavy atop Marcus’ crotch. If they were back in Rome, Marcus would grab him and roll him over and fuck him into the tile, but they’re not, so Marcus can’t. All he can do is watch while Esca tugs at the front of his braccae, practically ripping it down. Marcus’ cock bounces into the air, not nearly as soft as it should be for how quickly this began. But Esca does that to him. He can see the momentary surprise on Esca’s face, but then Esca washes it away and regains all his control. All Marcus can see is Esca’s pretty determination, the wind making his cheeks flush pink and dancing his light hair across his forehead. It only makes Marcus harder, worse when Marcus looks down at his length so close to the front of Esca’s braccae. He waits with mounting excitement for Esca to slink down his body, but that never happens.

Instead, Esca wraps one hand around Marcus’ shaft and holds it tight. Marcus cuts off a cry, a spike of pleasure jolting through his body. Esca lifts his other hand to his mouth and spits on it several times. He doesn’t explain himself to Marcus at all. Marcus is too busy staring to ask. When Esca’s licked and spit his palm into a dripping mess, he reaches behind himself, and Marcus can’t see what’s happening anymore. He can feel the brush of something—Esca’s knuckles?—along his thigh. Esca’s face scrunches in concentration, eyes closing, and he works himself while he holds Marcus still, and all Marcus can do is pulse in Esca’s grasp and marvel at the beauty before him. The cool air doesn’t seem as frigid as it first did, the mud not so unpleasant. He doesn’t look back at the warriors anymore; this is just between the two of them.

He has an idea of what Esca’s doing but can hardly believe it. It doesn’t seem right for Esca, who’s finally had a chance at being master, to be preparing himself. But Marcus’ clouded mind can’t muster any other explanation. Marcus’ fingers dig into the sand while he holds himself back from grabbing Esca, and eventually, Esca withdraws his hand. He’s breathing harder with exertion, and he lifts up on his knees to push his own braccae down. As soon as his cock’s out, Marcus is gaping. He tries to sit up on his elbows for a better look, but Esca shoves him back down. Esca’s cock is long but more slender than Marcus’, a paler colour but still pink at the tip. The hair around it is light and curled. The shape is a little different. Marcus licks his lips and tries to memorize everything, then grins at the belated realization that it’s hard. It fills his chest with hope. There’s too much between them. It couldn’t have all been for show, but he still doubted, still worried, and now he can see the proof that Esca, at the very least, finds him attractive.

Esca hovers over his crotch, moving closer, and reaches down to grip Marcus’ cock and point it straight up, between Esca’s legs. The braccae stretched over Esca’s thighs obscures Marcus’ view, but that doesn’t make the scene any less mesmerizing. He’s transfixed as Esca lowers down, lost as soon as the tip of his cock presses between Esca’s cheeks. He wants Esca to turn around, wants to see Esca’s ass before he slides inside it, but he couldn’t form a coherent sentence if he wanted to. Esca guides Marcus up his crack, against the little, puckered entrance slick with spit. He rubs Marcus’ cock against it, then repositions and pushes down.

Marcus breaches Esca’s hole, throws his head back into the sand and groans, pleasure ricocheting up his entire being. It’s instantaneously perfect. His whole tip pushes inside at once, rubbing against Esca’s velvet walls, and Esca gasps but still pushes down, takes a little bit more, one centimeter at a time, keeps impaling himself while Marcus trembles and forces his hips still. He wants nothing more than to slam up inside Esca’s warm body, and if it were anyone else, he would. Esca’s palms land on Marcus’ stomach, pressing down and sliding up. Marcus moans in spite of himself. His hips jolt up. Esca chokes.

Esca hisses, “ _Stay_ ,” like ordering a dog, and Marcus is so whipped with pleasure that he nearly apologizes. He holds himself as still as he can while Esca keeps going, impaling himself right to the base. When there’s nothing left to take, he drops his full weight on Marcus’ body, crushing himself down. The walls of his ass seem to tremble around Marcus’ cock, pulse and squeeze at him. The pressure is exquisite. It’s so tight that Marcus worries he must be hurting Esca; he can barely fit. But Esca’s face shows no pain, only flushed cheeks and dilated pupils, and he takes a minute to sit there, staring down at Marcus’ burning eyes.

This doesn’t seem right. It’s not the role of a master. This isn’t marking Marcus as a slave. He tells himself that this isn’t Rome, and things are different, but he still can’t believe his luck. He’s never felt so good in his life. It doesn’t even matter that they’re on a cold shore with enemies all around them; all that matters is that they’ve found a way to join, to become _one_ for a time, and when Esca looks at him like this, he’s _so sure_ this goes beyond their bodies.

Then Esca starts to move, and Marcus is too lost in the rapture to worry about circumstance and betrayal and even golden eagles. Esca rolls his hips, grinding his body down, his balls draggling through Marcus’ pubic hair and his blond cock bouncing in the air. He lifts a little up, and he pushes back down, testing himself, then does it again, throws back his head and moans. The arch of his throat is gorgeous in the fading light. His whole being is gorgeous. He drops his head back and starts to rock, move his hips forward, sliding on and off of Marcus’ dick and taking him in little circles. Every movement Esca makes is sheer perfection, but the best parts are when he clenches his ass, scrunches his face and hisses in delight, wrapping himself around Marcus’ cock impossibly tighter, like nothing will ever be able to pull them apart. Marcus moans and writhes beneath his Esca, so sure this is everything he’s wanted.

Esca is beautiful. Esca rides Marcus like a horse, devastatingly gorgeous as he claws at Marcus’ tunic and rolls his hips and squeezes his thighs. Marcus can’t take it for long—he shoots his hand to Esca’s side, clutches at the bare skin of Esca’s hip, slicking it with sand. He’s delighted when Esca doesn’t stop him. Esca seems too busy riding Marcus to care. Marcus is panting so loud that his breath rivals the pounding of his blood in his ears, broken only by Esca’s delicious moans. Every time he grinds down, he angles his body forward so his cock drags along Marcus’ stomach, catching in the dark hair and smearing precum along the edges of Marcus’ tunic. Marcus resists for as long as he can, but he still ends up grabbing Esca’s cock. He wraps his fingers around it and pumps it, looking up at his master for permission, and Esca only tosses his hips forward and moans.

Esca’s going to be the death of him. He holds Esca’s hip with one hand and pumps Esca’s cock in time with Esca’s thrusts, squeezing every time he gets to the head. When Esca stops to sit and flex his ass around Marcus’ cock, Marcus stalls to drag his thumb along Esca’s slit, playing with the foreskin and pulling it down, rubbing precum all around the shiny, pink tip. Esca makes a wonderful whimpering sound and shoves his hips forward into Marcus’ grasp, his blue eyes almost completely black and unfocused. He breaks their silence to moan, “You’re built like a horse.”

Marcus mumbles without thinking, “You’re my perfect rider.” And Esca chuckles, his lips tugging up as he lifts for another drop, impaling himself to the hilt again.

He strokes Marcus’ belly like a pet and murmurs, “Good boy.” In that context, it almost makes sense. When Marcus looks at Esca, he’s so awash with pleasure, throwing himself fully into it, so content and magnificent that Marcus can’t imagine it feels anything but good to take a man’s cock. It almost makes him wish they’d done this the proper way—Esca _taking_ his slave—but then, right now, Marcus wouldn’t give up his position for the world. He opens his mouth to try and say more—beg to be Esca’s horse any time Esca wants him, but he’s stopped by Esca’s shifting.

Esca leans down over him, in time with the steady rhythm of their fucking, right down until their noses nearly touch. Esca’s hair brushes Marcus’ forehead, tickling, his laboured breath ghosting over Marcus’ chin, his hands on Marcus’ shoulders and his hands pinning Marcus’ sides. It squeezes his cock between them, but Marcus keeps pumping it. He tilts his head up to brush their lips together, desperate for more of Esca’s tongue, and Esca gives him chaste, little kisses that he has to fall away from for air. All of Esca’s focus seems to be on taking Marcus’ cock. Marcus doesn’t complain, just loops his arm to hold Esca around the waist, pumps Esca harder and breathes, “ _Esca_...”

Esca answers, “ _Marcus_ ,” sounding breathless and beautiful.

And Marcus can’t take it anymore. He can’t take that: that acknowledgement, that personal connection, the closeness of Esca’s face to his. He doesn’t know how he lasted as long as he did. It strikes him as amazing, suddenly, that he didn’t come the second Esca took him inside. Esca’s distracted kiss is his undoing. His stomach tightens, his fingers burying into Esca’s skin, his hand stilling on Esca’s cock—he arches off the ground, nearly tossing Esca off, screams and _explodes_ in Esca’s ass. He clutches to Esca’s hips for dear life while he pours himself into his Esca’s warm body, thrusting out load after load of his seed. Esca mewls and curls around him, ass clenching and soaking it in.

When Marcus is done, dizzy and spent, he falls back to the sand. And Esca keeps going. Esca keeps fucking himself on Marcus’ cock, Marcus’ hand loose around him, until he cries out and spends himself across Marcus’ chest. Marcus stares, transfixed, as it splatters him, one spurt narrowly missing his chin. He moves his hand belatedly to help, pumping it out, and Esca groans and squirms in his grip, milking every last drop.

Eventually, Esca’s hips grind to a halt. His cock starts to wilt in Marcus’ hand, his head hanging, the air thick with the stench of their release. Esca’s heavy but all Marcus wants, and he doesn’t want to let Esca go.

Esca lifts his hips and does sit up. Marcus’ cock slips wetly out of him, trailing spit, sweat, and seed. As Esca totters to his feet, Marcus suddenly feels absurdly empty and horribly cold. He reaches down to tuck himself into his own braccae while Esca stands over him, doing the same. All he wants is for them to be alone so they can lie together, curl up over in the grass and doze off in the remains of their bliss. But he knows they’re being watched, and their lives are no longer their own.

Esca steps off and stands at Marcus’ side. For a moment, it looks like he wants to say something, and Marcus wants to hear it.

But then he reaches out an arm and only helps Marcus up. Marcus stumbles to his feet, muddy and damp and too drained to function, but he’s a soldier and he pushes through. He leaves to collect his bundle of lumber for the tribe, and he catches Esca’s terse nod.

Esca starts back up the hill, and Marcus follows: a good horse to the last.


End file.
